


Wedding Blues

by atomicsupervillainess



Series: Corpsey Verse [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Competitive Fitzsimmons, Crack Fic, F/M, Family OC's, Fitz is totally not much better, Hand Jobs, Jemma is a THIRSTY AF bride, Mentions of Daisy, Mentions of Lance Hunter, NSFW, Teasing, They are both extremely thirsty individuals with absolutely no chill, Total Fluff, Two-parter, during the wedding reception, long-suffering Fitz, mentions of trip - Freeform, smutty fluff, titilation, turning the tables on Jemma, wedding fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5508734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/pseuds/atomicsupervillainess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unlike his bride, Young Master Fitz did not have reams of wedding planning tracts to read, dress fittings to attend, nor superstitions to organize various days and proposals and parties around in order to keep himself occupied until the day of their wedding. All he had had, for the better part of a fortnight and the accompanying few days, was his moving camera mechanism to fiddle with, and the motion picture film of his bride's hysteria treatment, and the memories thereof.  </p><p>It was not any wonder, therefore, that the newly married pair had, in the midst of their reception, engaged in a highly competitive, and highly titillating round of audacious teasing and debauched behaviour. It would be such a shame if the young couple's lechery were to be caught out...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part the First

**Author's Note:**

> So the much anticipated Corpsey Wedding is FINALLY HERE!!!! 
> 
> While I was researching, I came across a fun and weird little fact - so add this to your trivia tuesday repetoire. Apparently, the tradition of the garter toss arose somewhere in the medieval period due to the near savaging of the bride by the wedding guests, who would all surge forward after the ceremony to snatch a piece of her dress, which was supposed to have such high levels of luck attached to it that they would literally rip and tear pieces off, leaving the bride in tatters, until, apparently, one smart and loving husband was no longer up for that crazy bullshittery, and tossed a garter to the crowd to appease them!
> 
> So how about that?!

 

~*~

 

Unlike his bride, Young Master Fitz did not have reams of wedding planning tracts to read, dress fittings to attend, nor superstitions to organize various days and proposals and parties around in order to keep himself occupied until the day of their wedding. All he had had, for the better part of a fortnight and the accompanying few days, was his moving camera mechanism to fiddle with, and the motion picture film of his bride's hysteria treatment, and the memories thereof.  

It would be remiss to omit the fact that he had watched said film, repetitively, on his own, under the auspices of determining the glitches and kinks with the camera and the self-cranking mechanism. However, while it might be of purpose to note that the young master did, in fact, perform a good many adjustments on the motion picture camera late at night, he was far more engaged in muffling the noises that ensued from his throat with the back of his hand, whilst he sinned and ...argued with Henry Longfellow.

He had patently memorized the pattern that flushed her supple flesh - the grayscale film version paled in comparison to the colour of his memories, but it was a deal good together. The way it bloomed against her throat, curling in a wash between the pressed cleavage of her breasts, disappearing into the tight line of her corset - upwards, darkening against the column of her throat, flourishing along her cheekbones. At this point, she was panting - He knew the moment when her eyes would widen in sudden surprise, the dropped ‘O’ of her mouth as those deliciously lascivious sounds were drawn from her, her back arching and her toes curling in her stockings. Her heels had dug hard into his back, pressing the device, and him, tighter to her as she came apart, shaking and taut like a flower buffeted in strong wind.

However, satiating himself by...abusing the wicked stick, as it were, satisfied a bare few animal cravings, much to Mr. Fitz’s dismay. Being an erudite gentleman of aptitude and intelligence, who prided himself on being of a much more enlightened breed, he was indeed troubled by his baser nature, and the strength to which it seemed to have consumed his fore-brain. It was as if he had been lobotomized - like a rod had been stuck in him, swirled about, leaving him nothing but a wash of feeling and desire and the longings of his lizard brain.

It surprised him, how audaciously the sentiment had overtaken him - to finally have his beloved Jemma, to be alone with her, to map her curves and angles like a cartography project, to delineate each mole and freckle into its own neighbourhood, to declare her lips a principality, her breasts an empire, and the whole of her, his universe, and to discover her, as was his wont, with a systematic focus and determination - to dedicate himself wholly to the study of her.

It knocked out all other feelings - He had gone to the church that fair, snowy morning in the early grey, with no apprehension or unease, despite the reassurance of his groomsmen and his best man, Mr. Lancelot Hunter, who had insisted that fearing the death knell of one’s wayward libido was both common and expected. He had, in fact, likened marriage to a ball and chain, though he declared himself to be happily married by all respects. It was confusing, to be sure, but the fact hardly registered as Fitz had readjusted his top-hat and straightened his boutonniere. He was far more at ease with himself than he had any right to be, his attention instead fixated upon the heavy oak of the church doors, waiting, unblinking, for the moment when he would finally glimpse his bride on this day, the first of the rest of their lives, when they would be granted such freedom of access as never before. It was like being granted the key to the Bodleian Library, staring at the shelves upon shelves, and deciding where to begin.

It was sheer anticipation.

She had appeared as a vision. He felt as though the wind had been knocked from him, blown by surprise at her radiance, as she floated in on a cloud of tiny snowflakes and a burst of cool, crisp air. The sunrise streamed magenta and rose-gold and tangerine behind her, as though all of the natural world had turned out in celebration. Her white veil softened her already soft features, making her expression as dreamy and delicate as a watercolor.

Tears had sprung to his eyes, unbidden, but for once, he did not chastise himself, or even much notice, as she approached, like some pale snow fairy from a Hans Christian Andersen tale, come to steal his heart. Her skirts had nearly encompassed the entire aisle, and he’d had to shift slightly to the side to allow her father to pass as he pressed Jemma’s hand into his own, half-stunned by the moment and the enormity of the realization of one of his greatest dreams.

Her veils lifted like frosted clouds, encrusted with tiny seed pearls and little sparking jewels, mirrored in the embroidery of the low decolletage of her tightly laced bodice. He remembered the way her collarbone had pinkened prettily under his riveted gaze, and the way her mouth, half-opened like a rosebud, had blossomed full into a broad and teary smile 

He had barely heard the Reverend’s words, nor his own vows, only the beating of his heart, and the insistence of it that he should pull her closer, press her to him, and embrace her until the space between them was no more.

He hadn’t been able to stand it, and somewhere near the end of things, a hand had migrated to cup her cheek, thumbing lightly against the small bone there, and another around her tightly-cinched, tiny waist, and he hadn’t cared a whit for the ceremony or the proceedings or declarations of Man and Wife, and had drawn her to her tiptoes, and tipped her backwards with the fervour of his passion, his lips and tongue and life seeking hers.

It was only after, when he had heard the Reverend behind him declare them married, that Fitz realized he had indeed waited until the right time - or probably more to the point, that his errant lizard brain had serendipitously decided that the moment had been nigh, right when the ceremony required it.

It had been the one moment of his life that Mr. Leopold Fitz had been nothing but good timing and base instinct.

Therefore, one might be able to understand the sheer distress poor Mr. Fitz faced at the reception, every time he felt the warm brush of his new wife’s hand against his own, or her knuckles against his thigh during the receiving line. A small mewl escaped his throat.

“Oh, dearest - are you quite alright? You look rather flushed. Are you sure you’re not overtaxed by the day?” Jemma asked, the warmth of her small hands against his seeping into his bloodstream and coursing straight as arrows to his heart (and other, more nether, regions). He made some words of denial, and was grateful for his great uncle Hamish’s wisdom to put a few heavy rocks in his sporran, so as to keep...matters...from cropping up. 

“Oh thank heaven,” Fitz breathed, slipping his hand from his wife, as Mr. Phillip Coulson, a well placed member of her Majesty’s Royal Shield, reached for his hand to shake, and introduced his wife, Melinda.

As they sat at the long banquet table, bedecked with all manner of breakfast food, listening to the long-winded speechifying of various cousins, aunts, uncles, parents, grandparents, and friends, Jemma’s hand drifted from her dizzyingly long row of silverware and onto the buoyant mass of her enormous skirts, and thence, slowly voyaged towards the woolen hem of Fitz’s kilt. Her eyes stayed studiously center, and she nodded and laughed and blushed, favouring each speaker with what appeared to be her undivided attention.

Her father, the noted speaker and much lauded parliamentarian, St. John Simmons, had risen to address the gathered guests, his back to the newly married couple. He had lovingly discussed Jemma’s early fascinations, and had made doting mention of the fact that “Though she had not, in fact, outgrown her odd childhood pleasures of biology and chemical samples, bell jars and test tubes, she had managed to attract a young man of good character and a similar curiosity of mind, with enough mettle to deal with all manner of dissection he might find himself beside, even if it is nothing more than a badly cooked kidney pie.”

Upon a particularly sentimental moment, her hand, which had hovered slightly above his knee, finally found ground, affectionately squeezing the fleshy bit of thigh exposed. With an undignified squeak, Fitz flinched away, becoming suddenly and deeply pink. Quick as anything, and with an answering rosy blush, Jemma stole her hand back, encasing it in the many folds of her exorbitant skirts.

His strange turn was so marked, St. John himself paused in his lengthy speech to inquire after his new son-in-law’s health. Deliberately, Fitz brought his hand to his mouth and coughed. With a strained voice, he answered , “Bi’ of egg, down the wrong tube. Quite sorry, please, do continue.”

Fitz turned to his bride, whose gaze was studiously turned from him. She was quite miffed, he could tell from the stiffened column of her lily-white throat, the straight statue line of her lips, unmoving.

“ _Jemma_ ,” he tried, his whisper soft and hidden between them. “ _Jemma, darling…_ ” Nary did she move.

Fitz sighed under his breath, his brows creasing with personal distress and, disproportionately, with a great deal of adoration. She was as his own Pygmalion, at this very moment, a beautiful statue that paid him no attention.

“ _Oh my darling girl, I’m sorry_ ,” he apologized behind a slab of buttered toast. Her father began to bring up a few charming tales of her finishing school (which she had been summarily kicked out of for conduct unbecoming a lady), “ _You merely startled me, my love, forgive me - C’mon Jem, don’ be like tha_.” He begged, unaware of how he had been leaning closer and closer to the shell of her ear, or how his voice had dropped into a low timbre, or the way his accent had thickened up under his distress.

Jemma tamped down the delicious thrill of a shiver, and fought with her expression as she turned to him, a slight pout upon her features. She felt clumsy digits moving against the heavy, voluminous fabric of her skirts, and looked down to see his own hand, in a gesture of apology, attempt to mimic her earlier affections. “ _By Christ, woman, you mighten’ not even have legs under these skirts, for all I can tell!_ ” He hissed quietly.

She giggled merrily, and broke her stony facade, taking Fitz’s hand surreptitiously and sliding it back to his own lap.

“ _Pay attention_ ,” she commanded with mock seriousness, as Fitz’s great-uncle Hamish knocked his butter knife against his water goblet, quieting the room after St. John’s comprehensive speech for one of his own.

“I’d like to share wit’ ye some words about m’very favourite nephew, m’sister Davina’s son, Leopold, an’ then, if ye will countenance an old fellow, a simple few recitations from a poet of some renown, a Mister Robbie Burns.” The knobby-kneed, be-kilted old codger strode out onto the floor, his wobbly jowls shaking his massive mutton chops as he began his address.

Fitz nodded, turning to take in the proceedings, and Jemma, darkly, smiled. Her hand once more drifted from her own skirts towards Fitz’s thigh. The corner of her mouth curled into a devious, hair-pin curve as her fingertips spidered over the skin of his knee, stealing ever so gently under the hem of his kilt.

Summarily shocked, again, Fitz jolted, swinging his surprised face towards his wife, banging his other knee heavily against the table, just as his kinsman’s deep voice boomed out a recitation loud enough to drown out the clatter of silverware and china.

“Pay attention, Leo,” Jemma ordered, the apples of her cheeks deepening with colour and her eyes lit with mischief and a little fear.

Fitz gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, as her fingers slowly caressed his heated thighs, voyaging terribly slowly with soft, swirly, circular motions, up his thigh, dipping inward, and then returning. He nodded rapidly and leaned back, wrapping his hands, knuckle-white, around cutlery (a butter knife and a dessert spoon, strangely enough, though, perhaps, not quite so strange, as his attention was unduly drawn elsewhere).

Jemma, meanwhile, had a beatific expression upon her face as she multi-tasked, ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ at the appropriate moments. The only odd note across her features was the way she would occasion to draw her bottom lip between her teeth, the tell-tale flush against her cheeks, and the tightness of her brow, as if she was concentrating upon an extremely elaborate dissection.

Like a great ship leaving Britain’s shores bound for America, the journey of Jemma’s hand towards Fitz’s rapidly swelling John Thomas was agonizingly slow, fraught with danger and eagerness, and was sure to leave him with a bout of dysentery from the sheer anxiety and rising sexual frustration.

His mouth scrunched as he attempted to casually lean back in the high-backed, stiff, mahogany chair, trying to force his...David Copperfield...into the Artful Dodger grip of Jemma’s stealthy left hand.

“ _AAaahrrr_ mmmmmmm-MMmmmmmm,” Fitz corrected, unable to contain the noises within him as the tingling warmth of her finger-tips grazed the base of his ...Dickens, tickling along his scrotum. He took an enormous bite of scone and made a show of admiring its deliciousness. No one seemed to notice the oddity.

Except Jemma. With a dainty titter behind her free hand, she snuck another glance at her new husband, catching his startled, adoring eyes as she gripped him firmly, and pumped - once, twice, three times, watching him moan around the rapidly disappearing scone in his hand.

“I am so pleased,” Jemma’s spinster cousin, Rosemary, said, timidly beside her. “I did quite wonder how favourably my blueberry scones would be received - by a Scot no less!”

Jemma gave a twist of her wrist on the upward movement, flicking her thumb across the head of Fitz’s cock, where it was weeping fluid. His eyes fell shut in a delighted, and wholly embarrassed, moan.

"I dare say he’ll ask for a spare basket to bring along in the carriage as we travel towards the honeymoon!”

“Truly?” Rosemary inquired, shining with pride. She turned to Fitz, “Oh Mr. Fitz, please do say so!" 

Jemma’s mouth widened in mischief as she sped up her ministrations, taking in the torment writ upon his features - his high, tight eyebrows, and the minute shake of his head in the negative. “Oh _yes_ , Fitzy, do say so! Tell cousin Rosemary how much you desperately love her scones!”

Fitz swallowed, and tried to marshall his emotions and modulate his voice in the midst of his wife’s secret, shameful attentions beneath his kilt. He was having a devil of a time keeping his hips from bucking into her tight grip.

“ _SO_ -! I mean,” He took a gulp of water, and tried not to wheeze and whine, “so good. Delicious. _TAA_ -! _aste_!” With that, he stuck the remaining morsel in his mouth and fell back against the chair, his eyes squeezing shut.

“My dear husband - his heart is indeed in his stomach!” Jemma joked.

Rosemary beamed. “It’s settled then! I’ll have my girl deliver some to the keeping of your driver,”

“Oh, do!” Jemma declared, as suddenly a clamour arose.

“Oh!” she cried, removing her hand suddenly, leaving Fitz to slump, bereft and confused and out of sorts, still hard and sticking as straight up as a mizzen mast on a clipper ship. “The bouquet toss!”

 

~*~  
  


Once young Miss Coulson had skipped from the floor, clutching the bouquet tightly to her chest, her eyes lighting on the dashing Antoine Triplett on the way back to her seat, a chair was presented to the middle of the cleared away space.

Lancelot Hunter, Best Man, crooked his finger first for the bride, and then for the groom. Poor Fitz, who had been squeezing his eyes shut at intervals, had been attempting to regulate his breathing and will his turgid erection to some lassitude. He had streamed through the usual stock - cat livers, cadavers, professor Vaughn’s too-long fingernails - but the most he had been able to manage was a mild wilting and readjustment of his sporran.

Jemma turned back towards him, nearly at the chair. A blush crept shyly over the column of her long throat, clouding against her freckled cheekbones, as - in a moment of sheer incongruity with her earlier lascivious behaviour, she nervously bit her lip,  and dropped her eyes, her lashes fanning against her cheeks, suddenly timid and anxious under his gaze. With a flounce, she arranged her skirts around her, and sat.

“Come on, Romeo!” Hunter sounded with a leer. “You are leaving your beautiful bride to the mercy of your groomsmen and the bachelors of the party! What can you be waiting for, sir?”

Fitz coloured, his gaze flicking to his kilt as he rushed to stand. _Heavier rocks._ He thought. _I should have chosen heavier rocks…_

Luckily, his eager pace kicked up the folds of his kilt, and masked his half-hard manhood. The garter toss wouldn’t assist with his embarrassing condition, but it was either that or revert back to the savage medieval traditions, and leave his wife, indeed, to the mercy of the crowd - and if there was one thing young Mr. Fitz was insistent upon, it was that his most beloved, most dear Jemma, who rushed headlong into such dangers, would never do so unattended, nor would she ever suffer should he be able to take it up in her stead.

When he reached her, he dropped to the floor, taking care to tent his kilt over his knee to hide his unfortunate predicament, and looked up to glare at his wife for her mischief - well...not for her mischief _exactly_ , but for not... _finishing_ it. However, when his eyes lit upon hers, and he saw the limpid, reverent quality in her gaze, the softness of her joy, so pure it edged on sadness - it knifed into him, cutting whatever hard-heartedness he bore into ribbons. The heat in his gaze transformed under her attentions, at once from distemper to desire. Her eyes widened, and suddenly, she licked her lips, as if her mouth was quite dry.

His hands delved under the hem of her many skirts. He did not break his smoldering gaze, searching out her ankles in her fine kidskin boots. With a raised eyebrow and a small, sideways smirk, the heat of his palms closed around the bones of her ankles, drawing them slowly, but inexorably, apart. Jemma swallowed hard as she stared down at him, her mouth falling open, working to suck in a breath.

His cock twitched as he slid forward between her legs, loving every moment of her slowly mounting arousal - watching it play across her face, the way her eyes would dart to the crowd, and then back to him, embarrassment tinging her cheeks a deep colour. He gathered the layers upon layers of silk and satin in his hands, lifting the many folds past her ankles, and whispered just loud enough so only she could hear, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

As Fitz dove beneath the manifold skirts, he caught sight of the way her beautiful rosebud mouth dropped into a scandalized ‘O’.

Once there, in the intimate dimness, he took all the opportunity of time tradition had afforded him, and turned his mind, like a screw, to the myriad of ways he might shockingly tease his lady love. He nuzzled his stubbled cheek against her stockinged calf, nipping gently just to feel her jolt and hear her muffled gasp, as he took stock of his situation, and plotted his endeavour. She _had_ been the one to begin this competition. She should be ready to end it, because he, Leo Fitz, was ready to _win_.

The bustle and wire frame of her collapsible hoop skirt granted him quite a large range of movement, and the thinness of the silken layers meant that a small amount of light filtered through, illuminating, once his eyes adjusted, the seam of her stockings, stretching up and up to her inner thigh, and her dainty, lace edged satin knickers, pulling along the curve of her bottom and hiding her sex.

He positioned his knee on the ground to hide how he drew his left hand away from Jemma’s far ankle, hiding from the crowd gathered how he snaked it under her skirts with him. He danced his fingertips along her outer calf, the lingering heat of his flesh on her body burning her up, even after the press of his palms dragged up, between her legs, toward the humid heat of her center.

She squirmed on the chair, casting her gaze to the ceiling, never knowing where his lips and tongue would fall against her next, when his meandering hand would finally reach the delta of her thighs. She gasped, bouncing in surprise when she felt the slick wetness of his tongue caress her skin through her stocking, licking along the seam right to the edge of her garter. His tongue wiggled dexterously underneath, swiping at her flesh decadently, like a cat with cream. It sent Jemma’s mind spinning towards presumptions of what that movement might do against another part of her flesh, and her face turned a deep red, much to her horror, and the occasional titter and guffaw of the guests gathered, watching only her face for evidence of what was occurring beneath her skirts.

With determination, she schooled her features, attempting to keep her expression neutral and impassive. It almost worked, until she felt the sharp scrape of his teeth, coupled with his thumb’s purposeful swipe against the gusset of her knickers. With a sudden squeak, she firmed her lips, and tried desperately not to give away the debauched behaviour happening under her petticoats.

 _Jesus, Mary and Joseph,_ Fitz thought, stroking the moistened gusset, in awe at the wetness that had formed it to her folds, the slickness that aided his ministrations. She had grown so _wet_ , he longed to taste it, finally, after all this time - with a disappointed huff (which sent shivers trilling deliciously up Jemma’s spine), he reminded himself that even with the help of the collapsible hoop, the bump of his head pressing against her pelvis as she shrieked her way to ecstasy would no doubt reveal the shocking actions he was secretly engaging in.

He turned his attention instead to the garter he had been teasing at with teeth and tongue, and noted, for the first time, the strange sight of a second garter.

A second, familiar garter, with a familiar lace edging and that same little ribbon, slid higher up, towards the juncture of Jemma’s thigh. Picked out in a delicate pattern of embroidery were the words, ‘ _Remember Me?_ ’

With a groan, he felt his cock strain against his sporran, and he squeezed Jemma’s thigh in recognition, nipping at the soft skin above her knee. _The bloody minx._

His mouth wrapped around the elastic of the first garter, he drew it down with surprising swiftness, working it over the heel of her boot with only a little prompting from the groomsmen, and tossed it haphazardly into the crowd, turning instead to stare at Jemma, his breath creaking heavily through his chest.

His wife did excel at preparation.


	2. Part the Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While their wedding reception continued to drag on, as is the wont of receptions everywhere, Mr. and Mrs. Leopold Fitz were more than ready to escape the hall and hurry on to their Honeymoon, and the nuptial duties ascribed therein.

* * *

 

Mrs. Hunter, matron of honour, gracefully clinked her knife against the side of her water goblet, breaking the newly wedded couple from their agog, breathless staring.

“Whilst the Bride and Groom fetch their respective cakes from the kitchen, it would be my pleasure to speak some few words about my dear friend, Miss Jemima Simmons, a girl I was quite fond of - and who is now, as we all know, Mrs. Leopold Fitz, a woman I am eager to know in her newest station in life. I am quite certain that she shall enter this new field with the vigor and aplomb her younger counterpart entered into every facet of her life -”

While Mrs. Hunter continued in this vein, Jemma hastily smoothed her skirts over her massive hoop. Patting her cold fingers to her cheeks to fight the heated flush she felt rising, she strode past her husband, who stood agape, watching her go.

She had not expected that.

Of course, she had expected Fitz to be properly moved by the finely embroidered garter she had painstakingly sewn, spending hours on a tiny phrase, picked out in a navy blue to compliment the ribbon. She had, indeed, expected him to be shocked and out of sorts, and thus, was rewarded in her estimations.

What she had not expected, however, was the extent of her own affectedness - the heady breathlessness which had her bosom swelling and dropping like something from a butcher-paper wrapped Penny Dreadful (though the tight-laced corset she wore was certainly not helpful in regaining the full quantity of air her lungs could contain), nor the tremulous heat between her thighs, slicking her wet against the give and pull of her satin undergarments. Every step made her knees tremble in her hasty retreat to the kitchens, pausing to lean against a wall as she finished descending the stairs, to gather her composure yet again.

No this was certainly not how she had anticipated her plan would unfold. To be fair, she thought, pressing her face to the coolness of the wall, she had gone off book at Fitz’s jittery state. He was like a _Rhithrogena germanica,_ jumping at every touch. It had been nerve-wracking at first, wondering what she had done wrong or if he had begun rethinking their match so suddenly after such a blatant display of passionate affection in the church, but when he had done his utmost to comfort her, she had deduced the true reason for his discomposure. As she had been longing for months (if not years, though saying such things was too shocking, even for her) to become intimately acquainted with all parts of her betrothed, she weighed the circumstances, her needs, and his ability to keep a cool head even in the most dangerous of situations. The balance had tipped heavily in favour of taking him in hand and putting to practice a smattering of the techniques he had displayed to her upon that evening with the motion picture camera and the hysterical massager. He had not disappointed in her hypothesized reaction. In fact, she had been inordinately pleased in the measure of mischief she had wrung from his flesh - It was merely receipt for the handful of dastardly pranks he had engineered upon their initial partnership at her Majesty’s Royal Shield Academy - in particular, the Faraday Cup. That bloody, blasted Faraday Cup.

Watching the exquisite play of pleasure on the theatre of her Beloved’s expression had not hurt, either.

Jemma giggled softly to herself. “A basket of scones for the journey.” She shook her head in joyous disbelief. “Oh, _Rosemary_.”

Her amusement was interrupted by the swift clatter of footsteps on the stairs behind her. “Do forgive me, Averill -” she started, pushing off from the wall.

“Not tha’ easy, I’ll not,” came the low, seductive, scottish burr. Fitz’s hand closed about her wrist, pulling her boldly back, tugging her against him as he pressed her mightily against the wall of the alcove beneath the stairs, where they could be ensconced in shadow.

Jemma’s stunned gasp was swallowed by his tempestuous lips. His hands dragged up the column of her throat to cup her face, his thumbs pressing needfully against her cheekbones, angling her to deepen the potent kiss. His tongue flit into her open mouth, caressing, just so, the tip of hers, and then retreating - drawing a moan like a battle cry from deep within her, Jemma’s tongue chasing his own across the barrier of their lips, competitively.

She may have been caught of guard, but she refused to proclaim defeat, rallying what little was left of her senses after the passionate barrage of that heady, knee-weakening kiss.

With a sudden movement, she clung to the back of his waistcoat, dragging her palms against the bunching of muscle and tendons until one arm was snug beneath his own, clinging desperately to his shoulder. Jemma felt Fitz’s mouth pull into a pleased grin at the motion, and pulled back, harrumphing, as she rethought her plan of attack.

Forehead pressed against hers, he quirked an eyebrow. “Do you per’aps require a chalkboard?” he teased, his humid breath curling against her lips, an irresistible reminder of their married state, and the moment’s embrace before. With a naughty glint in his eye, he leaned a miniscule amount closer, and, very deliberately, flicked his tongue against the underside of her upper lip, and chuckled at the indignant expression that formed on his wife’s face.

Jemma snaked a hand into the loose curls at the nape of his neck, and a low growl rumbled out of his chest. “S’not going to work,” he whispered into her ear, his tongue tracing the shell of it.

“Nonsense,” Jemma hissed, high and breathless, her nails scraping sensuously against his scalp, transforming his growls into intimate purrs as he tilted his head to press harder into her ministrations.

“It’s just a distraction anyway,” she smirked, nipping at the curve of his jaw, just where it connected to his long, finely drawn throat. He hadn’t noticed her other hand had gathered the hem of his kilt until it tugged him bodily forward, trapping his cock between his belly and her grip.

“Jemma!” He cried, his knees buckling as he sagged against her, his head heavy at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his hand clutching at her upper arms, “Not fair - not _again_ ,” he mumbled hotly into her skin in dismay.

“Oh come now Fitz, surely you appreciate my...assault on the Tower of London?” she asked devilishly, scraping her nails once more through his curls.

He gasped in despair, his weight heavy against her has he began to buck into her grip. “You’ll cane the vagrant raw carrying on like this,” he pleaded, his hands making quick work of her skirts, dragging them up over her knees, until the cool air hit the sodden satin of her new French knickers.

He gripped her thigh with a bruising strength and pressed his advantage, manipulating her wet center against the solid mass of his thigh, earning a keening cry from her throat. He captured it with a kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth as she struggled to follow him, stuttered upwards for his lips when he broke the connection, whining at his departure, her hands desisting their movements to pull at his shirtsleeves, to drag him back to her.

“We are man and wife now, Jemma, my love,” he reminded her, his eyes hooded and dark in the shadows above her. His hand slipped from her thigh to hook a finger into the edge of her knickers, setting her skin to gooseflesh and her tendons jumping as he slowly, ever so slowly, dragged the satin gusset away from her, revealing her most secret place. He kissed her hotly, jarringly, as the chill air brushed against the wet, moist heat of her core.

His fingers slicked against her lips, and they both moaned quietly. Jemma’s head fell back against the cinderblock, revealing her delectable neck and decolletage to Fitz’s ravagement. His mouth pressed hot, wet, messy kisses against the soft hills of her breasts, scraping his teeth along the edge of her dress, earning a long, low, steady sigh as he did so. His hand worked below, slipping into her opening. One finger at first - he groaned feelingly at the tight velvet of her, all around the single digit, and when her breath caught, her nails scoring the back of his arm, he slipped in a second - impossibly so, for how tight and soft and - “ _Holy Jesus_ Jemma, I never knew,” he rasped, thrusting his fingers in and out, seemingly forcing the air out of her lungs like a bellows with each thrust inside the forgefire heat of her. “No idea it’d feel like _this_ -”

“Like - _hhhhunngggggghhh_ -” She broke, her eyes squeezing shut. “-like what?” she panted, leaning heavily into the wall as his fingers hooked and dragged against some _fantastic_ part of her, and suddenly she was uttering a loud whine - she pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth to cut off the sound.

“Like heaven,” he murmured as he rose, drawing his wet fingers from her and angling himself fully against her with a gasp, slipping his cock between her lips just as his tongue penetrated her mouth, breaching the last of her mental defenses as she began to tremble in his embrace. He fit his arms snuggly around her tiny waist, drawing her tighter as he rutted into the slickness of her center. Every long stroke bumped his cockhead against her clit, eliciting tiny little cries and breathy pleading versions of his name, over and over.

“Jemma?” A brittle voice called down the stairs.

Fitz, thinking quickly, pressed his palm suddenly against Jemma’s mouth and stilled his movements, drawing back and letting their clothing fall. “She’s, erm-” His face flushed a startling shade of tomato. “Coming,” he said, burying the grin that split his face into his shirtsleeves as chortles tore through him.

Jemma slapped his hand away before fixing her skirts. She harrumphed, mouthing ‘not quite’, with obvious displeasure at her discomfort. She was wound up tighter than a spring-coil. Just a moment longer, and she would have...

But this was still a battle, and it was really just a moment’s rest to size up the field, re-strategize, and win the day.  With two quick strides, she’d overtake him. Just as she was about to pass him, she reached back and swung forward, her hand connecting to his kilt-covered bottom with a loud crack, and with a giggle, she added a small caressing squeeze as he stopped, stock still, his mouth falling open in surprise.

After taking a second to savour her tiny victory, she flounced off towards the kitchens, leaving him to rub his cheeks through the wool, and stare adoringly after her.

 

* * *

 

Jemma squirmed in her seat, trying desperately to work up some blessed friction to dispel the terrible ache that had gathered, seeking some relief from this fresh hell she found herself in. She could neither eat nor drink, and was quite distracted by her heightened sensitivity of feeling, frustration lancing through her as she stood and suddenly announced, “Dear friends and family, due to the prodigious length of the journey to our honeymoon destination, it has come to that hour whence my lovely husband and myself must needs change into our travelling clothes. Upon our return we shall depart, though I beg you to avail yourself of the comforts of the repaste, and the company within, for quite as long as you like.”

It was a good hour early for their escape, Fitz knew. He cut his eyes to her quickly, askance. Her veil sat slightly askew and her cheeks had been tinged faintly pink ever since their tryst underneath the stairs.

She gathered her skirts in her hand and marched purposefully to the right hall, towards the appointed dressing rooms without a backwards glance, knowing, as she did so, that once she had splashed some bracing water from the basin into her face, her bridesmaids would enter and help her loose the ruddy tight lacing on her corset, remove her bustle and hoop, and wish her well on her journey.

And then, once free from the party and under the guise of blessed forward movement, she would draw the carriage shutters and frightfully attack her terrible tease of a husband, and they would both abandon their pesky virginities many times over in the comfort and privacy of a well-appointed carriage, where the rocking back and forth could be easily attributed to the road conditions, and not the actions under engagement within the coach itself.

No, one could not classify the former Miss Jemima Simmons, and the current Mrs. Leopold Fitz, under the genus _Patience_.

She slammed the tiny dressing room door shut with an aggravated expulsion of breath, rushing headlong toward the pitcher and basin set up on the vanity. The patter of feet sounded louder as she poured a streaming of cold water into the bowl and dipped her hands in. They stopped suddenly outside her door, and then rushing forward with a clatter and a turn of the lock.

“Oh, Barbara,” Jemma groaned and splashed another handful into her face, dabbing a moistened monogrammed handkerchief (one of Fitz’s, a keepsake) into the valley of her cleavage. “I don’t know how long I can resist - I have strange fantasies about ravaging poor, dear Fitz in the carriage, fantasies which I cannot seem to shake!”

“...Really?” A deep, masculine voice inquired in a sly, playful tone.

“Fitz!” Jemma cried in horror, crumpling her handkerchief to her breast. “You can’t be in here! It’s against the rules!”

Fitz sidled closer, smirk widening into a wolfish grin. “And you so like rules, don’t you, my darling wife?”

“Barbara! and Daisy-!”

“Were lingering in conversation with Mr. Antoine Triplett and Lancelot. Those Hunters, matchmakers to the last,” he insinuated, placing his hands on either side of hers, where they clutched uselessly at the vanity table. He dragged his lips briefly against hers, enough to leave her gasping with want, before brushing them softly up to the shell of her ear, his breath, hot and moist, eddying against the side of her face.

“You like rules,” he continued, reverting back to their previous conversation (he had worked the line out perfectly upon his extraction from the festivities, and felt it a shame to change tactics now, especially after her admission). “You like to break them. It makes you feel nice,” he insisted, arms wreathed around her middle, drawing her tight to him as he bent to kiss her - the fierce passion of his mouth on hers bending her backwards, making her cling to him as she moaned his name against his lips. By god, Fitz thought, intoxicated by the weight of her in his arms, if this was what marriage was like, he’d have twelve!

He suckled her bottom lip, finally releasing it with a wet pop, and, dragging his stubbled cheek against her own until he could press messy kisses along her neck and shoulder, added in a beggared whisper, “Are not my hands quite so fine fingered and skilled as Daisy or Barbara’s? Cannot I assist my wife to undress?”

Jemma’s mouth worked, but no voice came out. Instead, she nodded rapidly, earning her another sound kiss as he walked her backwards toward a straight-backed chair. The backs of her knees connected, and he lowered her, like so much weightless gauze, into the seat, his tongue writhing against hers in way that sent her imagination spinning towards the other sorts of penetration it insinuated, other touches and other frictions that might slide so wetly and so expertly against her body.

She whimpered when he drew away, and clutched at the hem of his waistcoat. FItz hovered, raking his eyes over her rumpled skirts and askew sleeves, her little rosebud of a mouth, pink cheeks, and her impassioned, adoring expression.

Once more, never-ending, it seemed, Fitz felt the fevered swell of his heart in his breast, like he could burst to pieces for love of her, his beautiful, strange, perfect wife, who - by some blessed providence - seemed to love him with a fierceness and a steadfastness and a desire he could have only dreamed of, before the reality superimposed itself upon the fabric of his life. He dipped his head again with a smile, slotting his lips over hers in a series of chaste, sweet, and doting kisses, falling to his knees before her, as if she were some goddess of eras past, and he, her humble supplicant.

It was not far from the truth, he thought, a grin quirking his features. Finally alone, he did as he had been so eager to do not an hour earlier, and rucked up the skirts that encased her, and ran his tongue along the inseam of her stockings, not stopping this time at the edge of the garter - no, his tongue, slow though it may have traversed her inner thigh, travelled towards a central destination, dragging wetly against skin, his nose edging against the satin of her knickers as he wedged his shoulder beneath her other thigh, angling her and opening her until his tongue swiped, in one long stroke, against the gusset of her sodden knickers.

Beneath him, Jemma shivered bodily, and he drew back, selfish to see the lust cloud her face and her eyes close in feeling. With a few deft movements, he had removed and pocketed the garter intended for him, and had set about unclipping the stockings from the garterbelt, his thumbs hooking into the sides of her pants, slowly drawing them over her hips, as she raised from the seat to assist him.

“Jemma?” There was a quick rap on the door, and Jemma’s hips stuttered in midair, a look of shock and fear emblazoned on her features. In a flurry of movement, she shoved Fitz from between her legs, stumbled out of her knickers, and flapped her skirts back down - over a befuddled Fitz.

Her stockings were sliding dangerously around her ankles as she attempted to maneuver around the closet-sized dressing room - finally giving up and bending forward, reaching for the door handle at an awkward angle.

“Yes Daisy?” Jemma inquired, cracking the door an inch and shoving her face against it. Against the backs of her calves, she felt the grip of Fitz’s warm palms rubbing up and down, setting her aflame. He licked erotically at the back of her knee and she quickly squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden bolt of lust that lanced through her and buckled her knees.

“Are you quite alright? You seem faint - do you need me to unlace you?” Daisy asked, concerned, pushing open the door further, and forcing Jemma backwards a step, still bent at an awkward and inconvenient angle.

Inconvenient, mostly, of course, for her. For Fitz, ensconced in the dome of her skirts, grinning wickedly as his fingertips gripped the swell of her hips, nipping at the round cheek of her bottom, like it was a ripe apple he had plucked on a summer’s day, it was quite convenient indeed.

Jemma yelped at the suddenness of his teeth, shivering all over as he soothed it with a careful caress of his tongue. She flicked her gaze to Daisy, and insisted, “I am quite alright, certainly a bit knocked up at the moment, you know the stress of the day and all that, but I am more than capable of unlacing myself - Barbara tied an ingenious little bow at the back that should release me like that,” she said with a snap of her fingers. She hoped, blindly, that Daisy did not notice the way her fingernails had notched into the wood of the door jamb, or how her whole body had set to quivering, like a rippling tide, as Fitz’s tongue exploratorily lapped at her folds, worrying between them, and delving into her entrance.

“I sim-” Jemma mashed her lips together to keep from crying out, as the tip of Fitz’s tongue flicked her nub of flesh, sending a spasm of pleasure surging to her limbs, “-simply require some time alone.”

“Oh,” Daisy said, confused. After a moment’s hesitation, she shrugged and pushed the door open, leaning forward to meet Jemma’s bent stature, embracing the other woman in a tight hug. The sensation of stimulation against her breasts, coupled with errant electric current of desire coursing through her body like a livewire, and the way Fitz licked and suckled at her clitoris, tore a tiny, impossible sob from her throat. She was nothing but feeling, and it was too much - too much!

“I’m going to miss you too, my dear friend,” Daisy sniffed, wiping away tears as she pulled the door shut. “I’ll just leave you to it. If you need anything, I shall be just outside.”

The door shut, and Jemma fell forward, clutching at the handle, her other hand gripping the leg of the vanity for purchase as she pressed backwards, mewling.

Fitz palmed her cheeks, squeezing and manipulating her as he angled his head slightly more to the left, nudging the tip of his thumb into her tight entrance as he swirled his tongue around her clit, in an approximation of the massager he had invented. The taste of her - like a delta, like an estuary, something riverine and natural and intoxicating, was in his mouth, and he could understand why the French would rave about the act so - debauched as it was, ravaging her with his mouth and tongue with her friend just the other side of the door. But perhaps, he thought, stroking inside her with every exaggerated roll of her hips, they had both devolved, like the French, or worse, like cave dwellers, savagely desirous of nothing but the delights of the flesh, of the momentary comingling, of becoming, finally, One - and that joyous release in being whole, and together and -

“ _Fitz_ !” Jemma hissed in a harsh whisper, “Oh!” her voice was tremulous, “ _I_ -”

He could feel the squeeze of her passage around his fingers, and instinctually (having very little experience in the animal world of mating and coupling, save for a small few experiments with his beloved) drew them free, wiping her wetness against the back of her thigh as he moved, swiftly to standing. He wiped his mouth against his shirtsleeves, and with a rough toss of her skirts, bared her bottom, and the pink, glistening folds of her cunny, to his purview. By god, he’d never stop being fascinated by the sight of it.

Lizard brain in control yet again, limbic system fanning the forge of desire, he flipped his kilt up, grappled his cock, nudged the head of it against her wetness and bumped her clit in the way she liked. She hissed, tossing her head back, her veils cascading against her shoulders. He sunk into her entrance, groaning deeply, biting his lip to stopper any other sounds that might escape.

Jemma stuttered forward with a loud cry of pain, and Fitz froze.

“Are you quite alright?” Daisy called through the door.

“ _Just_ -” Jemma called breathlessly, a tear squeezing out of her eye. Fitz’s hands petted carefully at her hips and at her hair. She cleared her throat, willing the sudden, sharp pain out of her mind. “Erm, took my corset off. It was - _unnhhhh_ -” She bit down hard on her lip as Fitz leaned forward, whispering her name in concern and fear, unknowingly spearing further into the tight, virgin channel. “The pinch.”

“Ugh!” Daisy cried in commiseration. “The Pinch! One on hand, t’is a relief that your organs and ribs can finally move back to normal, on the other hand, the way the blood rushes back and everything resettles is so painful! When women get the vote, it shall be the first law I will lobby for - an outlaw of corsetry!”

“Indeed.” Jemma agreed, winding her fingers with Fitz’s where he pressed them against her middle, searching for injury, trying to still them. “You should get back to the festivities, Daisy.”

“Only if you insist...”

“I do!” Jemma said, with more force than she meant. “Goodbye!”

Jemma waited for the clatter of boot heels to pass before she turned to look behind her, where Fitz’s watery eyes shone.

“I’ve _hurt_ you!” he cried in a raspy whisper. “I’ve _savaged_ you! I am too much the animal, oh my darling, I cannot understand how, but I _have_ ! The force of m’thrust, perhaps, the _berserker rage_ of m’lust for you - some internal injury, I knew it, _I knew it_ \- t’is too good to be true, an’ somehow, the cosmos _would_ realize we two were _too happy_ , and now I have gone and done it, _I’ve broken_ -”

“Nothing but my hymen, Fitz.” Jemma said between gritted teeth. That, she knew from her biological texts. To breathe through the pain and wait for her muscles to adjust around the girth of him, she knew from a hushed conversation with her mother and Mrs. Hunter that morning, while getting dressed. She took a gulping breath.

“I knew it! _I’ve injured you_ ! I should get a doctor - oh, I am the stupidest _brute_ in all existence, harmin’ my own _wife_ , not _a day_ married -!” He went to move away, but Jemma slapped a hand at his waist and dug her nails in - halting his removal from her.

“I _am_ a doctor, darling,” she reminded him, moving her thumb in comforting circles against his side. “It’s meant to happen this way.”

“I’m meant to _break parts of you_!?” he asked, horrified.

“Well yes - strictly speaking - you've de-virginized me. Broken my ' _purity'_ -” This she said, bringing one hand up in an estimation of air quotes, “ - though the concept in and of itself is _prodigiously false_ , and I was certain my bicycle had done the trick on an odd fall months ago, so I am a little surprised at the sharpness of the pain -"

" _It's a sharp pain?! Am I cutting you!?_ "

Jemma shuffled them forward a bit, bracing an arm against the wall as she ran her other hand down Fitz’s forearm, grabbing his wrist to still his terrified gesticulations, and insinuating her fingers between his, clasping their hands. In a calming gesture, she brought his hand, palm up, to her lips, and pressed a fond kiss against the swell of his thumb. “No darling, you’re not. Just... _hold me_. Let my passage become accustomed to your girth."

"Hold you? _Holding_. Yes,of course, my love. I can do tha’." He nodded, getting lost in the comfort of the motion, drawing her back tight to his front, the shift and pull of him inside her as she moved around his cock into this new, far more intimate position made them both gasp.

Fitz felt an aching shiver jolt from his cock down his thighs, quivering as he wrapped his arms around her, curling his back in a tight arch, encompassing her form, where she braced herself, pressing against the wall. He notched his chin in the groove of her neck, and pressed a smattering of careful kisses against her shoulder and throat.

After a moment, Jemma laid her hands flat against the wall and experimentally shifted backwards, sliding further onto Fitz’s cock with a tremulous, shuddery breath. His breath had turned strangled as he tried, against all the urgings of his body, and particularly, his cock, which felt like some perfect culmination of an experiment, like some glorious holy rood -

“Holy Christ absolve me,” Fitz choked out, his arms tightening around her, “it’s even -”

Jemma gasped a little.

“Are you -? This is alright?” Fitz murmured into her ear, gently laying his lips against the juncture of her jaw and throat, trying desperately to remain frozen in place, like some approximation of that old schoolyard game.

Jemma nodded carefully.

“Y’know I won’t believe it until I hear it - y’lie better without words, darling.”

Jemma gulped, and shifted further onto his hardness, eliciting a strangled moan from Fitz, and drawing out a tiny little cry from her own traitorous throat. Blasted texts didn’t mention the poking! Well, technically they _did_ , but not the way it _felt_ like someone shoved a cricket mallet up your insides and -

“No, nope - that’s it, I’m hurtin’ you, an’ I’ll not stand for it-” With a bereft sigh, he shifted to the left, as if to step away, but Jemma cried out -

“No! There! That’s much better!” She grabbed a handful of his bum, her nails digging lightly into his flesh and making tiny sparks pop behind his eyes. “It wasn’t quite right at first, but this is -” Jemma wiggled a little bit, and expelled a shuddery breath as Fitz groaned heavily, “-quite nice.”

“Can I-?” Fitz’s voice had a pleading quality as he breathed his words against her neck, hot and itching. Everything quivered inside of him to be held so still, when all of his baser instincts instructed he move.

“I think that’s the general idea, so...yes?” She wasn’t at the level of hedonistic pleasure she had been earlier, and was a bit afraid it would feel like a plunger unstopping a drainpipe, but, if she could not find pleasure in this (it was not uncommon, as many of her tracts and treatises had cited), then she would follow her mother’s advice, and simply close her eyes, and think of Fitz’s pleasure.

So one would understand her surprise when, after fiddling with her skirts for a moment, she felt the warm grip of his hand migrate from her hip down to card through the thatch of dark hair at her pubis, his fingers petting her, searching out that tiny button of flesh. “Fitz!”

“-Hang on, I just -” He readjusted his two searching fingers, “-There we go! Found it blind!” He gave a proud little laugh of triumph, hearing her sharp intake of breath.

Everything felt doubled, more intense, so much more sensitive as his fingers began to work, and his cock, slowly, and ever so gently, shifted back, and tilted forward, in careful, rocking motions. Like a boat on a lake, Jemma began to sway back, pressing the little pebble of feeling more fully against Fitz’s swirling fingers, ensheathing him within her tight passage. The stretch and fill of him - at first so painful - was building pleasure slow, like a drip-drug in her veins.

As the pain eased into something that edged pleasure like a knife, concentrating it like some sort of bliss-solution washing against her with every thrust and pull, Jemma’s movements began to syncopate. A twist of her hips, a deeper arch, a tiny rotation, testing Fitz’s reactions - his stuttered breaths, growly moans, the power of his hands as he drew her back, spearing her along his length.

Their rocking turned choppy, forceful, capped by huffing breaths, tiny little pleasure sounds, and deep keens, until Fitz stuttered forward, a hand splaying over Jemma’s on the wall. The long line of his heated front burned against her back, seeping through the layers of cloth as his fingers moved to twine with hers.

“I’m close -” He struggled, his other hand gripping her hip as he gritted his teeth, trying to hold on, trying to make this good for her too, bring her to the precipice, so they could dive in together.

Jemma’s pulse raced, her heart leaping against the bone cage of her ribs - every pulse radiated a steady mounting euphoria that all of their earlier game-play and teasing had hinted at. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, her mouth hollowed out in feeling, as Fitz’s questing fingers found her clit again, and rapidly ratcheted up the tension winding through her limbs, the spill of pleasure-drug in her veins, “Oh God! _Fitz!_ ” she wailed, feeling like she had raced up the highest diving board, the highest platform, up some mountain -

She was panting beneath him, thrusting back hard and wild, her head thrown back, her face a mask of ecstasy, and he knew, pistoning into her harder and harder and faster and faster, losing all rhythm or semblance of skill, becoming nothing more than instinct and body movement, that this would be the end of him.

He shoved forward hard, his toes curling in his brogues as he let go - crashing into a bone-shattering orgasm, his back stiffening behind her as his hand worked feverishly, trying so hard to bring her there, to bring her with him, “ _UUuunnghhhh! Jemma!_ ” he grunted, every muscle quivering in some high-held harmony of exquisite feeling, better than he’d ever known by his own hand, until he felt boneless and collapsed, hot and sweaty, against her back.

After a second, he remembered himself, and his determination returned. “Tell me what you need, let me help you,” he begged between gulping breaths.

“Touch me,” She whined, one hand finding his, where it had gripped at her abdomen on that last, perfect thrust. She directed his fingers back against that enflamed nub, and he set to work. His cock still hard inside her - oversensitive, he did what he could to assist there as well, shoving into her with disjointed, heady thrusts.

“ _Oh!_ ” she cried suddenly, feeling the pinnacle reached. “Harder!” she demanded, pressing his thumb firmly into her clit as he gave one more powerful, driving thrust, pushing her bodily over the brink, sending her spiralling out and over that cliff, pleasure cascading over her, drowning her in indulgent waves. Her limbs wracked with spasms as her hot velvet channel squeezed tightly down. The feeling of Fitz inside her, making her whole, filling her, sent an aftershock up through her core, shaking her whole body in one long blissful climax. Her rigid body peaked, and then, as her orgasm fluttered away, her limbs went weak, and she caved in against the strength of Fitz’s arms. He slipped out of her, and together, they lowered to the floor of the small dressing room, propped against the vanity, panting and grinning, eyes half-lidded, like addicts after a good hit.

Jemma giggled, and Fitz grinned, pulling her against him with his slack, spent arms, to press a fond kiss to her temple. “So...laces then?”

Jemma burst into breathless, effervescent laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAaaaaaaaand here's the culmination of this part of the series! Let's hear it for de-virginizing nerdy scientists who can't wait until their dang Honeymoon, or even to get their clothes off, to finally do it!
> 
> I'm so very thankful to Notapepper, who helped me make this just as awkward and funny as it should be!


End file.
